Adventure: Come hell or high water

Chest-deep in swirling brown water, every metre is a monumental effort. The powerful current threatens to rip my legs from under me, while me feet - wrinkled and soft from days spent in sodden motocross boots - struggle to gain a grip on the slippery rocks below.

Along with three others, I'm attempting to ferry a motorcycle across the swollen Archer River, in tropical far north Queensland. The bike is on its side in a rough and ready tinnie, and one that has seen better days, at that.

With the river now running at 1.2m over the road, it takes us about three hours to ferry our tour group's nine bikes over one by one; then it's time to watch the 4WD carrying all our gear have a go, and hope our socks and jocks - and the truck's crew - don't end up as the main course for a family of crocs…

Crocodiles? Well, they're not that much of a threat, but you can't just pretend they're not there, either. No, all you can do is keep an eye out and pray that motocross boots aren't much of an appetiser.

A couple of aetheists in our 4WD suddenly found religion when the waves washed halfway up its windscreen, but with a flurry of revs and prayers it was through - cue sighs of relief all round.

NOT YOUR AVERAGE HOLIDAY
This might have been a world away from Queensland's Gold Coast or Victoria's Lakes Entrance, but for the eight participants who had signed up for Cape York Motorcycle Adventures' first tour of the year, it was still very much a holiday - just one with an Indiana Jones-sized dose of adventure.

A large degree of that adventure was due to the prolonged wet season the region was experiencing. The tropical downpours simply hadn't let up, and our circuitous journey from Cairns to the top of Cape York, some 1500km to the north, was going to be all the more interesting as a result.

The sun was shining when we'd set out from CYMA's Cairns' base five days earlier, giving us false hope of a relatively dry trip. But after being forced to turn back from two flooded creeks inside the first hour, we had to wonder what conditions were lying in wait up the track…

Sensibly I got my predilection for aerobatics out of my system early, picking a particularly warm, deep and soft bog hole as my landing pad of choice. At least I was able to pick myself up and laugh about it. Joe, whose get-off soon after saw him dislocate a shoulder, ended up in the local hospital - out of luck and out of the trip.

That night we stayed at Cape Tribulation, gateway to the World Heritage-listed Daintree Rainforest. Now you wouldn't normally get to ride dirtbikes through a protected area like this, save for the fact there's really only the one road that heads straight through it. It's awesome country - dense jungle dissected by a vast number of creeks and rivers - but with the rain tumbling down it wasn't simply a matter of popping the clutch and storming through the wet bits on the back wheel.

Working in pairs, we lifted the back of each bike clear of the water, while pushing the front along the rocky bed. The cool water may have been a relief from the oppressive heat, but the swift current took the edge off any sense of frivolity, and thoughts of those abundant croc warning signs were never far away.

After a couple of hours the country opened up, but this didn't mean we could necessarily relax, as Ken soon found out. He gassed it up a little too much on a slick section of clay, and ended up sliding into a ditch. He'd done his lower leg, but in a sheer stroke of luck, of sorts, he was only 10km away from the nearest medical centre, at Bloomfield River. The message was clear - take it easy.

We stopped in at the remarkable Lion's Den hotel a little further up the road, which had been the locals' watering hole of choice for 135 years, since the opening of the nearby tin mine. You could probably spend that long again just reading the thousands of messages locals and travellers have scrawled over every square inch of its interior, but time was getting on, and so did we.

After another hour of undulating dirt we popped out on the sealed road to Cooktown, just before the stark edifice of Black Mountain. A massive hill of granite boulders, Black Mountain is the result of millions of years of erosion, the wind and rain conspiring to leave a granite core of rocks piled one on top of the other.

It's tempting to explore deep into its interior, but sheer drops, snakes and general disorientation all await those who take their chances, so we pushed on for the more comfortable certainties of the Cooktown pub, our stop for the night.

BYE-BYE CIVILISATION
Named after Captain James Cook, who came ashore here in 1770 to make running repairs to his ship, Endeavour, around 100 years later Cooktown became a thriving centre servicing the Palmer River goldfields, 100km to the southwest. These days it's largely just a base for the outlying cattle stations and properties of the area, although more and more tourists are being drawn by its charms.

After braving four hours of sudden washouts, creek crossings and kangaroos on the ominously named Battlecamp Road, we found the Normanby River was impassable, so we backtracked and took the sealed road down to Lakeland, which is little more than a roadhouse found at the bottom of what once was a massive prehistoric lake.

From here we hit the Peninsula Developmental Road; an outback dirt highway of sorts that we would call home for the next few days. Both wide and flat, the surface ranged from bitumen smooth to a corrugated, potholed nightmare, but we made pretty good time. In the wet season the road is strictly 4WDs only, and when the weather is really bad, well - then the Cape can be cut off for weeks at a time.

We camped at the Hann River Roadhouse one night and the Archer River Roadhouse the next, chewing through a few hundred kilometres of bush and low savannah in between. Nearing the Archer it was clear the world of mobile phones, fast food chains and fancy cars was far behind us. The flooded dips in the road became more and more frequent, and the towering anthills that dotted the side of the road grew ever taller. Gigantic boulders, speared up by some cataclysmic eruption millions of years ago, lay haphazardly across the surrounding countryside, like the aftermath of some gargantuan game of marbles.

After a day and a half waiting for the Archer River to fall we finally made our crossing. Bikes, bodies and Toyota Land Cruiser all accounted for, the crocs would just have to go hungry… The main road continues northwest from here onto the bauxite mining centre of Weipa, but after 50 or so kilometres we turned off to take the more northerly road to the Cape.

Luckily the Wenlock River was down when we rolled into Moreton Telegraph Station, which was a good thing given it had been some 7m over the road just a few days earlier. The rivers in this part of Australia are fed by massive catchment areas, so river levels can rise and fall dramatically in relatively short periods of time.

DON THE FLIPPERS
The old Telegraph Track beckoned soon after we reached the roadhouse at Bramwell Junction, the old service road being something of a prize trophy these days for dirtbike and 4WD enthusiasts alike. The old telegraph line was put through in the 1880s, and linked Brisbane with the state's most northerly communities for nearly a century, until new technologies took over. Unfortunately, in less than 5km it had us beaten, the sheer volume of recent rain leaving most of it submerged, and leaving the bypass road as our only hope of making it to the top.

The creeks were everywhere now, many requiring us to cut down saplings, thread a bough through both wheels and then carry each bike over with two men at either end. Effective, but bloody hard work - especially in full bike gear in the tropical heat.

After the mud, the track turning into sand came as a welcome relief. It's hair-raising at first, as the bike wanders all over the place, but you get used to it soon enough, and then begin to really enjoy powering through the bends, roosting sand metres behind you.

That night we stayed at Heathlands, the ranger station for the Jardine National Park. At 400,000ha, it's bigger than some European countries, and the lives of the rangers who live here are a world away from the city and its stresses.

Heeding Mick and Sally's warnings of the death adders and taipans that apparently like to curl up on the warm concrete outside our rooms, we got stuck into another hearty campfire dinner, topped off by a beer or three.

THE HOME STRAIGHT
The next day we battled our way north through another stinging deluge. The road went from bad to worse while the bog holes turned into small lakes. Several times we had no option than to 'go bush' around these swamps, crashing through the undergrowth until we burst back out onto a dryer section of track.

The 4WD, meanwhile, was having difficulties of its own. Four tonnes is a lot of weight to push along a waterlogged track, and that winch certainly came in handy when, inevitably, it sank axle-deep into the mud. The rain eased by the time we reached the Jardine River, where we were taken to the other side by 'Skinny' the ferrymaster - a man who's not about to request stress leave anytime soon.

Eventually we turned onto the trail that led to the northernmost settlement of Bamaga - more a supply post for the outlying Torres Straight Island than anything else - and then the 30km track that led to the northernmost tip of Australia itself.

We were close now and our spirits were soaring, as were our speeds along the tight and twisty track that wound its way through the jungle. The final kilometre to the tip is done on foot, so we left the bikes and picked our way through the mangroves and then over the bare rocks, eventually reaching the sign that stated we were at the top of Australia.

Closer now to Papua New Guinea's capital of Port Moresby than we were to Cairns where our journey began, we'd made it, and after the hardships we'd encountered along the way the sense of achievement was immense. Compulsory photos duly snapped it was time to celebrate, mainly by hitting a deserted nearby beach and staging our own private stunt riding championship. Well, how often do you get a whole beach to yourself to play on?

That night, back at our tent paradise right on the beach at nearby Punsand Bay, we enjoyed some ice-cold beers and a final fantastic meal, before facing the prospect of loading the bikes onto a Cairns-bound barge, then flying home over the Great Barrier Reef.

Riding to the tip of Cape York is the quintessential Aussie outback adventure. It's remote, it's isolated - and all the more beautiful because of that isolation. Getting to the top of Cape York isn't easy, but then that's what adventure is all about. Cape York Motorcycle Adventures has got the trip and looking after its patrons down to a fine art, so take the plunge - you'll not only discover the real Australia, far from the madding crowds, you'll enjoy some top riding too, and you'll be tackling one of Australia's truly epic journeys. Do it. It'll be unforgettable, guaranteed.

THE MAN WITH THE PLAN
Roy Kunda's began running off-road motorcycle trips from Cairns to Cape York for close on 20 years, and in that time he's shown thousands of people the beauty, isolation and incredible riding this remote part of Australia has to offer.

The Cape York trip takes eight days and costs $4950, which covers your use of a bike, all accommodation, your fuel and all meals. It also covers your flight from Bamaga back to Cairns (or the reverse, depending on your start point), so all you'll need is a bit of cash for beers and souvenirs.

It's important to note that the trip detailed here wasn't easy, simply because the wet season had hung on a lot longer than normal. Trips conducted in the dry season are considerably less arduous, and Roy expertly tailors each tour to suit each group's riding ability.

CYMA conducts a range of tours spanning two days to eight days. For more information contact Cape York Motorcycle Adventures, tel: (07) 4059 0220, or visit www.capeyorkmotorcycles.com.au

YOUR STEED AWAITS…
Suzuki's DR-Z400E is an excellent machine for a trip of this nature, affording a wide spectrum of riders a capable bike with plenty of practicality, including electric start and a relatively comfy seat.

There's enough grunt on offer to keep experienced veterans happy, while off-road beginners will find the DR-Z won't punish them harshly for their mistakes, as is often the case with many harder-edged models.

Other models available include Suzuki's DR-Z250, and Yamaha's TT-R250, TT-R230 and TT-R125.